


We Walked Amongst the Ruins Famed in Story

by sablesheep



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Sort of Lolita thing going on here, black rom, please pity Dualscar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablesheep/pseuds/sablesheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some relationships are things based in legend for a reason. And while things may not have ended that well, they began badly enough so they really should have seen it coming. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Set in the same universe as Deep Waters, Strange Bedfellows</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	We Walked Amongst the Ruins Famed in Story

**Author's Note:**

> I have a soft spot for the two of them, okay? Also take pity on Dualscar's ancestor who decided that Mindfang was nothing more than a cute little girl who needed a stable figure in her life and she was really just using him as a living shield against Dualscar. 
> 
> More to come after this, promise. 
> 
> Also, chapter and fic titles taken from "The Ocean's Song" by Victor Hugo.

When Dualscar first met Mindfang, he wasn't Dualscar yet and she wasn't a Marquise. She was the Marquess of the Eighth Ward, with her Ancestor as Marquise. They still called him Longscar, a name he'd thought of in order to give him an opportunity to show off the scar stretching across the width of his chest which he, at the time, thought was a brilliant way to meet women. 

In retrospect, it wasn't. But he digresses.

When he first meets the Marquess of the Eighth Ward, the little Mindfang not yet a Marquise, she was sitting at the piano in one of the estate's sitting rooms. He can't remember her title to save his life-- Fangsomething? Something fang? And like hell does he have any fucking clue about what her given name is. But he stops to stare at her nonetheless, awkwardness over forgotten names or no.

She's a sweet little thing, slight and slim with perfect posture. Her hair is absolutely impeccable, falling to the tops of her shoulder blades in perfect barrel curls. Her clothes are elegant and-- well-- he's surprised to see how perfectly at ease she is. 

The Marquise, Mindfang's predecessor, is waiting in the dining room, he knows. Sitting there with his Lordship, his _own_ predecessor, the two of them probably flirting shamelessly while attempting to blackmail each other unconscious. He hates it. He hates knowing he descended from a man who's nothing more than a glorified suck up. But he hates sitting there being ignored even more. 

He can't help but wonder how this girl feels about her own predecessor, as she sits there playing. She plays wonderfully, and he can see from the doorway that there's no sheet music on the stand. But it's a honest melody, to be sure, haunting and perfect and somehow reminiscent of the wild territory just outside of the windows. 

She looks sweet and darling and barely out of the nursery. He knows he shouldn't stare but, well, in all honesty, he can't help it. He's not normally a very curious man, rather more the type to go 'that's nice, who cares, fucking NOBODY' and move on. But it's always jarring to see someone so young out in Alternian society, so he cuts himself some slack. He's not interested in _her_ , he's interested in how weird it is that she's _here_. 

He knows how the Cerulean women do things. It's quite impressive-- choosing their heiresses from the direct bloodline and training them from as early as they can be found to take up the mantle when 'tragedy' strikes. It's almost a shame, really. He hates to see it. Such a young girl stuck here in this big, empty house with a crazy woman.

But she certainly looks undisturbed by it all, in a sweet dress of white chiffon trimmed in lace ruffles. There's just the barest sliver of her shoulders showing, gorgeous silver flesh that looks as if it's never been touched. The muscles beneath are relaxed, betraying no signs that she knows he's there. There's a blue bow tied in her glossy obsidian curls, formed with symmetrical exactness to match the one securing the sash at her waist that was quite clearly executed by someone else's hands. The lacy sweetness of her dress and the paleness of the blue is at exact odds with the surroundings; airiness and innocence against a backdrop of dark, heavy fabrics and wood so rich it could give you a stomachache. 

She's like a sweet little sunbeam. It's a tragedy, really. If he had his way he'd usher her out of the room into the night and take her to some boarding school where she'd, at the least, be surrounded by other girls almost her age. Even her horns look somehow more cheerful than her Ancestress's, well-formed and statuesque, even if not yet as tall. Fuck, she's sort of adorable, isn't she? Can he adopt her.? He had been thinking about getting a puppy, but he's never really seen the point of dogs. 

No one, no one _ever_ should be left all alone with Varian's wrath. She's a terrible woman. She might be Marquise of the Eighth Ward but she's inexcusably dreadful despite all her wealth and power. She might be powerful, she might have good taste in art, her wine cellar might be impeccable and her poetry might be professional but like _hell_ is she a good woman. Honestly, anyone who thought it was acceptable to decorate one's gardens with orate skull statues really deserves to be shot.

"You play beautifully." He murmurs, finally deciding to make his presence known. Better not to startle her, he assumes. Her nerves must be as thin as blown glass; he hopes she's not about to start crying because that would be _awkward_. She stops playing. She doesn't turn her head, but the music ceases and her hears her take in a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He says, softly, taking a few steps into the room. Shit. She's totally going to start crying, isn't she? What he hell is he supposed to do about that--

And that's when she turns. She turns her head, slowly, and her curls swing listlessly over her shoulder. Her eyes are-- well-- like nothing he's ever seen. They're fierce and wild and absolutely thrumming with the promise that one day she's going to be someone absolutely marvelous and like fuck is anyone going to stop her. 

She smirks, slowly and it's enough to make his stomach twist around into a massively uncomfortable position. Her horns might not be that tall yet, but her fangs are something otherworldly and-- her _eyes_ \--

They're as bright and brilliantly blue as the ocean in a maelstrom. He's lost in their color before he realizes he's drowning, the sharpness of her seven pupils the anchor that pulls him down. She might be dressed like a vestal maiden but like hell is she anything less than a siren. And that's the moment he realizes he has seriously fucked up. He remembers this moment every time he comes close to killing her: if she's dead, he's never going to have the exquisite horror of knowing just how deep a hole he's dug for himself by pitying this woman.

"Why in the world would I ever be afraid of _you_?" Her voice is sharp but still somehow warm and lyrical. It's like frozen honey poured directly into his brain and he shivers, shaking his head slightly at the sensation. How does one describe that tone of voice? Dismissive? Curt?

She snorts, rolls her eyes, and turns back to the piano.

"That's what I _thought_." She shakes her hair over her shoulder in another flurry of black curls, like the coming of night over the shoreline as a lighthouse is suddenly extinguished. "For someone so handsome, you're rather stupid."

Without the passing of another heartbeat, she goes back to playing. 

And that's the moment he knows he's had his heart stolen and isn't ever going to get it back.  
Unless he wrests it from her cold, dead hands with his own claws.

* * *

The dinner gong rings after he's shuffled out of the room far too slowly. He stares at her as she goes back to her music, so completely non-plussed by the exchange that he's not entirely sure it actually happened. 

When he himself was seventeen-- even eighteen-- he wouldn't have _dared_ to speak to someone twice his age like that. For one thing it's just rather rude and-- well--

If he wasn't a gentleman of good breeding and the best of blood, he would have supposed her to be _flirting_ with him. But that can't be it. She's three months away from her eighteenth birthday if he remembers correctly, and she can't be at all interested in anything _obsidian_ at such a delicate age. And even if she was, it would hardly be societally acceptable to-- well-- allow her to solicit him. 

He makes his way into the dining room where his ancestor and the Marquise, the little Marquess's ancestor, are having a rather terse tete-a-tete. 

"Oh, Eadric," The Marquise says, giving him a once over when she finally realizes he's sitting there. "Whatever is the matter with you, man? You look positively purple at the gills."

He frowns and slips his glasses off the bridge of his nose, polishing them on his silk handkerchief.

"My apologies, Marquise, your Lordship. I stepped outside for a moment and I fear it was colder than expected."

Like hell is he going to say what actually happened. 'Oh yes, Marquess, I met your descendant, she's rather lovely, looks just like you, she's kind of a total bitch and I sort of am developing an elaborate fantasy of kissing her face off then throwing her off a cliff, is that okay?'

He takes his seat at the massive dining room table and folds his napkin in his lap, doing his best not to listen to the two of them sending each other veiled barbs that are, to be quite frank, far too insipid to be enjoyable listening. It always comes back to business and politics, in the send, and there's never any _actual_ flirtation whatsoever. That would be interesting, at the least. But no. Eventually the two of them remember that he's there and drop their argument in favor of making awkward conversation. No food is served, no wine is poured-- there's nothing but lit candles and water glasses.

"I do apologize for my darling descendant... she can be a bit--- well--" Varian makes a dismissive gesture as the awkwardness grows too great to be ignored. "Flighty."

She shows up just as the word rolls off her Ancestor's lips, striding into the room with far more elegance and poise than he'd expected out of someone so young. In motion she's-- well-- she's horrifyingly perfect. Young, and, well, far too full of herself for her own good. She's not walking like a young woman, just barely out in society-- she's walking like a woman in the prime of her age, full of her own self-importance and incredibly aware of how attractive she is. And she _is_ attractive. Perfectly sculpted face, like someone carved it from sparkling marble, with lips that look like they were made to be bitten, cheekbones that beg to be slapped until they color, eyes that--

Well. He can't bring himself to look her in the eyes again. Ugh. Nope.

"I was at the piano and didn't quite hear the gong go, I’m dreadfully sorry." She murmurs, but her face doesn't look at all sorry. In fact she looks decidedly pleased with herself, as if she knows there's nothing they can do to her. And she'd be right, too, because no one's going to get angry at a face as sweet as that.

It makes him want to gouge her eyes out with his fish fork. 

"Quite alright," his Ancestor says with a guffaw and an affectionate smile and like fuck does he _like her_? "You play beautifully enough to make up for it."

She smiles back and it's sincere for the briefest moment before Varian clears her throat and hisses: "sit down before you embarrass me any more". 

And then her smile is gone and her face goes blank once more. 

* * *

They dine, awkwardly. They nibble on eight separate courses, sip and eight different wines and talk about hundreds of banal subjects. The Marquess keeps quiet the entire time, answering questions only when they're directed at her. 

"You're awfully quiet," he murmurs, frowning over his dessert, a wonderful lemon raspberry sponge cake that's been coated in a delectable white chocolate frosting. 

"Children are meant to be seen and not heard," Variane murmurs in response, her voice almost harsh. She doesn't even allow her heiress time to swallow her forkful of cake. "And trust me, no one wants to hear what Vienna has to say."

The Marquess's face goes absolutely blank. He watches her fingers tighten around the fork until the handle bends. He can see her take a deep breath, breasts rising and falling. She glances up from her plate and meets his eyes. It's nowhere near as electrifying as it was before because he's expecting it but, well, he still wants to throw himself over the table and latch onto her swan-like neck. Preferably with his teeth. Preferably drawing blood, because like fuck is he going to let a seventeen year old girl call him _stupid_.

But he'll have to because, well, she's a seventeen year old girl. She doesn't even really have proper breasts for fuck's sake--

He glances at her cleavage over the rim of his wineglass. Okay, that's a lie. Even wearing a dress that goes up to her collarbones he can see that-- well-- she's got a _figure_ that an artist would die to paint. Sadly, his artistic talents are more focused on buildings than women-- although if he branched out, that could be rather convenient.

As he stares at her, she takes another forkful of cake and eats it, neatly. He watches the fork disappear past her lips with a swallow and bob of his Adam’s apple. She's still staring him dead in the eyes and he can't help but stare back. Is there something that he's missing? He must be missing something, right? That's when she pulls the fork out of her mouth and smirks at him. Before he can fathom what in fresh hell is happening her tongue darts out past her lips. She neatly licks the frosting off of her fork in gestures that are absolutely-- well-- scandalous. 

She never glances away from him. Not even for a moment. One of her perfectly manicured eyebrows arches up and he can see is her smug smile. He swallows. He swallows several times and then clears his throat. 

"Vienna," He says, after a long pause. "That's a lovely name for a _child_. It suits you."

The glare he gets is nothing short of disgustingly gratifying. 

"It is, isn't it?" Variane says, smirking. Her teeth gleam a stark white and Eadric resist the urge to slap the table and rebuke her for being rather rude. She'd kill him before he could say 'ever so sorry!'. "Far better than the title she's chosen for herself. _Honestly_."

"It's still better than Eadric." She snaps, throwing back her wine in a way that's absolutely, disgustingly _common_. She slams down her wineglass and before anyone can react one of the footmen is refilling it. "What are you, a frog?"

" _Vienna_ \--" Variane growls, loudly.

"At least I don't seem to think I'm living in a pond--" He grumbles, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Like you actually do?" She responds, catching the tail end of his words with a sudden scintillation of wit that makes him want to grin.

"Better than anything you could afford. What sort of work do you do? Other than sit at a piano and look pretty." He mutters, softly. "How much do you think that little talent will make you in life, huh?

"At least _I'm_ pretty." She murmurs in response, eyebrows arching. 

"That would be far more useful if you had a personality that was even remotely attractive."

Variane and the Admiral are staring between the two of them, looking more than a little bewildered. The Marquess glowers at him angrily and huffs, angrily. 

"At least I don't have a _penis_ ," She hisses, and he's not entirely sure what the hell he's meant to say to that. So instead he stares and says, softly: "I don't think you're old enough for me to respond to that properly." He murmurs, attempting to sound affronted while smirking at her. 

She chooses to respond by stabbing him in the hand with her dessert fork. Stabbing. Him. In. The Hand. His mouth drops open and he half expects to scream but nothing comes out. She rises from the table in a flurry of ruffled chiffon and the faintest smell of perfume. She's gone before anyone can say anything, which is a blessing in itself.

He stands, slowly, and stares between the startled faces of the Marquise and Admiral. The fork is still sticking out of his hand and he pulls it out as calmly as he can. 

"Pardon me-- Marquise, Sir--" He bows himself out of the room and then follows the little Marquess out of the room. No one asks for an explanation. 

* * *

She's halfway up the stairs when he reaches her. He grabs arm, just above her elbow, and is gratified to find that her skin is just as soft as he'd imagined. He almost feels bad that he's gripping her hard enough to bruise. But he's also disturbingly excited to see what colors she'll turn when covered in them.

"Get your _disgusting_ hands off of me," She hisses, showing her fangs and he sneers back at her before dragging her up the stairs. He throws open the first door he finds and slams her against the wall. 

Unfortunately, it's a linen closet. Even more unfortunately, it's already occupied by a rather surprised pair of servants. The Marquess starts laughing. It only serves to make him angrier and he drags her through the next door over and slams her into a free wall--

And he doesn't kiss her. He wants to but she suddenly looks incredibly afraid, eyes bright and her fingers shaking as she pushes against his shoulders. 

"...Sorry." He mutters, allowing her to slump against the wall. She stares at him, clearly shaken, and he gets flustered because _holy shit he was just about to assault a seventeen year old girl_. "I-- It's just-- you _stabbed me with a fork_."

The little Marquess shies away from him as best as she can when pinned against the wall, apparently mute with fear. She just keeps blinking with wide, horrified eyes, eyes that are actually beginning to tear up. He stares back and then huffs, loudly.

"Just apologize and we'll pretend this never happened." Dualscar murmurs softly, reaching to caress her face. "I won't hurt you--"

And that's when she slaps him. Hard. Hard enough that his head snaps, loudly. Her rings dig into his cheek, deeply enough to draw blood and he hisses, loudly. 

" _Fuck you,_ " She hisses, showing her fangs. "I hope your dick gets eaten off by a school of piranhas."

Before he can grab her by the blue sash of her dress and chew her face off, she's out of the room. When he finally composes herself enough to follow her, she's already in the sitting room where the Admiral and Marquise are taking their after dinner coffee. She's sitting on the couch beside the Admiral, her head pillowed on his shoulder. 

She's doing a remarkable job of looking frightened and innocent and the Admiral is clearly buying it because he's got an arm curled around her shoulders and is holding her incredibly close. The Marquise does not look at _all_ happy about it but seems prudent enough to understand that 'adorable child' can be a commodity.

The Admiral, on the other hand, looks incredibly pleased by this development and has a coffee table book spread out in his lap. He is apparently having a riveting conversation with her about the lives of woodland birds, one that she's contributing to shyly, with an affected innocence that makes his blood curdle. He sits in the armchair next to Varian's and glowers at the servant who rushes over to bind up his hand. She glances up at him for the briefest moment, just long enough to smirk before going back to being 'harmless'.

He is going to kill her.

Just as soon as he gets done kissing her. 

* * *

After coffee, the Marquess is dispatched upstairs to bed. When his Lordship, the Admiral, comments that it's quite a bit early for her to be going to bed, the Marquise snorts dismissively.

"She's a little girl. If she doesn't get enough sleep she's a nightmare." She pauses and then amends: "Even if she gets enough sleep she's a nightmare."

Vienna's face is blank again, but the glass she's holding is cracked when it's returned to the butler's tray. Dualscar watches her go with regret, knowing he should be grateful instead-- after all, she's a _child_ and given his history, nothing good can come of pursing her. 

"She's how old, again?" He ventures, all the same, pitching the question as 'you're such a saint for putting up with her' rather than 'can I kill her and have it be considered legal'.

"Just turned eighteen a few weeks past. Wouldn't know it, would you?" Varian mutters, as if eighteen years isn't enough to give her the experience needed so survive and she is, therefore, very put out by the effort of caring for her. Dualscar considers this for a moment and finds himself agreeing; if he was pushing a hundred and ten, he probably wouldn't want to put up with someone that young either. Hell, he's barely thirty five and he doesn't want to put up with her.

They all follow the little Marquess up the stairs after a short hour, an incredibly _long_ short hour. He spends the entire time attempting to pretend he can think about something other than those lips and that tongue and that figure--

His valet helps him undress without commenting on his surly mood, simply assisting him into his pajamas and dressing gown without another word. He almost wishes the man was a bit more _warm_ for the first time in his life-- fuck knows he could use advice right about now. But, no, telling his valet he wants to fuck the daughter of the house senseless will just get him in trouble with his lordship. 

Just as he's about to retire for the evening, there's a knock at the door. He huffs but pads over to the door and throws it open.

One of the maids is standing there, looking absolutely terrified. She hands him an envelope and curtsies before hiccuping out an apology and quite literally running away down the hall.

He shuts the door and locks it, sinking down onto his mattress and frowning. His symbol is scrawled on the front of the envelope with blue ink with 'the little one' scrawled next to it. 

That, itself, is a dead giveaway. It has to be from Varian because she's called him that all his life and he still doesn't appreciate it. 

But when he breaks the seal and unfolds the letter, it's not from the Marquise. The handwriting is fascinatingly unfamiliar, full of peaks and valleys and loops that are-- well-- stunning.

There's only one line of text. 

"Your move, asshole." 

And then, beneath that, in a signature that's too big to be customarily written, 'Mindfang'.

Yeah, like fuck is he going to be able to sleep tonight. She's not a sunbeam. 

She's a laser sight.


End file.
